


A place to call home

by mayalice



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Camelot, F/M, Five Years Later, Jukeboxes, Years Later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-06
Updated: 2016-03-06
Packaged: 2018-05-24 23:50:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6171685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mayalice/pseuds/mayalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn’t intend to stay. It was supposed to be another stop on the road, have a snack, gather some strength and go on. But when the old lady behind the counter asks if she wants a room for the night, she sees the old jukebox in the corner of her eye and in the next moment she finds herself with a key in her hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A place to call home

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thanks to my amazing beta tnlph!

"I'd like to make myself believe  
That planet Earth turns slowly  
It's hard to say that I'd rather stay awake when I'm asleep  
'Cause everything is never as it seems"  
(fireflies- owl city)

She has an inexplicable attraction to jukeboxes. She isn’t sure when it started, but she has this habit, whenever something falls apart in her life, to spend the night in front of the old box, feed it with coins and let the music flow in, until she feels it’s going to be okay again.

She didn’t intend to stay. It was supposed to be another stop on the road, have a snack, gather some strength and go on. But when the old lady behind the counter asks if she wants a room for the night, she sees the old jukebox in the corner of her eye and in the next moment she finds herself with a key in her hand.

She had been on the road for hours, slowly getting addicted to the feeling behind the wheel, cool evening breeze coming in through the open windows, and good music keeping her company when for the first time, she has taken control of her life.

She isn’t sure where this urge to leave came from.

It was an impulsive decision, to throw some clothes and a toothbrush into a traveling bag and just… go, without a destination or return date, without any clue where this journey is going to take her.

Maybe it's just the constant itch under her skin, that there is something she is missing, that she doesn't exactly belong here.

Dad always told her she should have been born in a different time. And maybe this is why she never fit in. The pace of life in New York was always too fast for her, and while her classmates spent their time at parties, she found shelter in the ancient legends she heard as a child, dreaming of castles and ball rooms, finding her world between the pages. 

But she will turn eighteen in a few hours, too old to try on mother’s old dress and pretend to be a princess. She should stop dreaming and find herself a new place to call home.

[The apartment in Queens never felt like home. (Just the place where dad would stand staring at the walls, missing mom.) And she walked around the world where she is feeling rootless, floating through space in search for her mother ship.]

She isn’t sure what made her take the turn to this town. Maybe the fact that for miles all she can see is the forest, and the potato chips she bought at the gas station a few hours ago were barely enough to calm the rumble of hunger her stomach made.

Maybe this name, “Storybrooke,” like a legend she had to uncover. But her hands turn the wheel almost automatically and the blood sings inside her veins when the sign at the entrance greets her on her arrival. (Welcomes her home).

She likes the sleepy peaceful atmosphere at the diner.

It’s shortly before midnight, and except for a boy about her age who is busy cleaning the tables, and a drunk in a leather jacket, hunched over a bottle of rum, the place is empty.

It could have been a bit disturbing, but something about this silence, broken only by the hum of the coffee machine and the clatter of the dishwasher, fills her with a familiar warmth.

On a full stomach, pizza in one hand and coin in the other, she stands in front of the jukebox, debating which song to choose. Later she will close her eyes, press random buttons and let new melodies to carry her. But the first song should get the respect it deserves.

Tradition is tradition.

"Need help?”

When she turns around, the boy who cleaned the tables earlier stands a few steps away from her, and smiles hesitatingly.

And maybe it’s something in the way his smile makes her stomach flip over, that causes her to hand him the coin and asks him to pick a song for her. 

It’s a surprise when “Only You” starts playing.

For her, it was a soundtrack of despair and hope that followed her throughout adolescence.

(She spent many nights dancing to its sounds, in a too large dress, letting the music pick up the pieces of her heart.)

She barely notices the tears, until they are rolling silently on her cheeks, leaving a trail of moisture.

"What happened? Do you want me to pick something else?”

She laughs between the tears. Because he looks cute and helpless, and how could she explain that sometimes she needs to let the tears wash her eyes, so she can see things clearly?

When the last section ends, and the music dies slowly, she turns toward him with a smile, traces of tears still adorning her eyes.

"Thanks.”

A faint blush covers his cheeks. “All I did was press a few buttons”

She laughs, extending her hand to shake. “I'm Violet”

The boy takes her hand.

“Henry.”

 

It had started like any other shift.

The diner is full with customers, and Granny balances two trays in her arms, and throws them instructions, while frequent complaints that none of them was as good as ruby. (Behind her, Grace rolls her eyes)

Ruby Lucas lives in Minnesota now, participating in a study on the behavior of wolves during the full moon. (Werewolves: Fact or Fiction?) But it seems like Granny keeps hoping for her to return and inherit the family business when the time comes.

The Nolans sit in their usual table, David waves at him, and Mary Margaret smiles apologetically, while trying to keep Neal from throwing the rest of his dinner on Leroy. (Leroy responds with a scowl, his fist closed on his fork in a way the can only interpreted as a threat.)

Grace works behind the bar, and scans Henry with her X-ray vision when he passes her the orders. (Lasagna to Philipp, hot cocoa for little Rose Gold, and a bottle of rum for Killian.)

"Another fight with your mom?” Grace always knows how to read him.

Henry just nods. At the end of this summer he is going to start college and leave Storybrooke for the first time in his life. And Regina had been more tense and prickly than ever. It seems that lately, every little thing causes an argument between them. From the chosen college, to the color of the curtains in his dorm room, not to mention his career choice. (Regina laughed when he told her he is going to study creative writing and wondered how he intends to pay the bills.)

Grace, who also grew up in a single parent family with an overprotective father, knows the accompanying tensions. (At least he has Robin, who lays a comforting hand on his arm, and tells him she is just worried. and Henry wondered to himself when this man managed to slip in to the place of the father he never had.)

But Henry didn’t intend to stay at home and wait for the storm to pass, and found a shelter in Granny’s. He learned to love the job. Wiping tables and serving coffee weren’t exactly his preferred career choice but there is something addictive in the smell of coffee first thing in the morning, and he enjoys Grace's company and loves the stories written during a sleepy night shift and the opportunity to meet people from other places who make a pit stop at the diner. (No one ever stayed). Even Regina was pleased the first time he brought her Granny’s famous apple pie. (Although she still pouted whenever she saw him sweeping the floor.) And if people raised an eyebrow at the sight of the mayor's son serving coffee at the local diner, they got used to it.

She attracts stares when she enters. Storybrooke residents were not used to visitors, and any stranger entering town tests under a magnifying glass. Henry recognizes the tension in the air and turns as well to check the new customer.

She looks about his age, maybe a little older. Her body language a bit hesitant, long hair covers her face and her eyes have the same lost gaze, which appears in the eyes of most visitors to the town.

Granny rushes to take her order and offer her a room at the inn. Henry hears her refuse, but later notices her playing with a key between her fingers and wonders what made her change her mind.

It’s almost midnight when Granny banishes a very drunk Killian Jones to his room, before she would have to call the sheriff to scrape him off the floor, and calls it a night, leaving Henry alone. (Grace left earlier, rushing to her date, while taking advantage of Henry’s kindness, as he promised to cover her tables.) 

Well, not really alone. The mysterious girl now gets up from her seat, checking the jukebox curiously. 

The old heap has been there for as long as he can remember (Sometimes it seems that time has stopped in this town,) but he reserved a special affection for it, and sometimes, when the place is empty, he empties the tip jar into the machine, leaving the songs to fill the silence of the night.

He approached her hesitantly. Five songs later they sit on the bar, two cups of hot chocolate in front of them (“It’s a family thing. We always offer hot cocoa, whenever one of us feels down”) and the heart is wide open.

"Why did you leave your home?” She looks up at him with surprise.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to. I'm just curious,” Henry adds quickly.

He breathes a sigh of relief when her lips stretched into an almost teasing grin. “How do you know I left? Maybe I'm traveling in the area, or visiting family, or my car broke down on the way to my apartment two towns from here?”

He examines her closely before he answers. “You are not dressed for a trip, your car is parked outside. If you have family in town you stay the night at their place and I've lived here long enough to know that people come to Storybrooke only if they have no other place to go.“

“You are very perceptive.” Shades of sadness color her eyes, but he recognizes an impressed tone in her voice.

“I'm a writer” he answers, as if that's enough to explain everything.

His fingers take out a small notebook from his pocket, and put it on the table. Violet’s eyes follow him with interest. 

"You write?” Henry nods. He isn't sure if it's just him, but he can swear he heard excitement in her voice.

“What genre?"

“Fantasy. Some science fiction too, but mostly fairy tales”

A light went on in her eyes. “Really? Which one is your favorite?”

“I like the old Grimm's tales. When I was little, my teacher, Mary Margaret gave me an old fairy tale book, which tells that all the classic characters we know live in a place called “the Enchanted Forest. For months I was convinced that all the people in Storybrooke were actually characters from the book, trapped under a curse that took their true identity. My mom wasn’t happy about that, but that might be related to the fact that I was sure she was the Evil Queen, who wanted to take everyone's happy en-” Henry realizes he is babbling and stopped the flow of words, his cheeks flushing. 

"Sorry, you must think I'm weird.”

“Why would I think so?“ He doesn’t need his superpower to know she isn’t lying, her eyes are clear and open to him.

“My mom, Regina, she is the mayor, and she thinks fairy tales are for children who don’t want to face reality”

She is silent for a long moment before answering

“I think fairy tales are our way to face it.”

Only later, he notices she never answered his original question.

 

“If you could be any fairy tale character you want, which story would you choose?”

She sips her cocoa slowly (although the abandoned rum bottle on the near table, is much more tempting) trying to evade his flood of questions. It's not entirely unpleasant. His eyes widen with the curiosity of a child when he asks her to tell him more, his face filled with expression at every answer. But she keeps her cards close to her chest, because even though there is something almost familiar in the way he is looking at her now, they are nothing more than two strangers in a diner, and she is not here to stay.

But she can’t answer him she would like to live in Camelot, without telling about father who used to read her bedtime stories about King Arthur, of years of Halloween costumes, plastic swords and riding lessons. And suddenly she wants to tell him, she wants him to know. Because even if she won't be here tomorrow (she won’t, she will get in the car with the first morning light, and keep going without looking back) she wants to leave behind a piece of herself. A story that will live inside the pages long after she's gone.

So she tells him about her mother, who taught her how to ride horses but did not live to see her win her first medal. (The walls are not big enough to contain the sadness, and father fills glasses of beer to stop the pain from flowing in all directions, as if the alcohol is enough to fight the yearning). 

She tells him about nightmares that wake her up in the middle of the night, screaming, of curses and daggers and hearts ripped straight out of the chest. (And how when she wakes up, she can still hear her heart beat outside her body, still feel the grip of the woman with the haunted eyes, still remember the moment when she loses control.)

She tells him about a little girl who stopped believing in happy endings. So she pretends. That she can overcome this, that one day her broken kingdom will be whole again. Until she gets tired from all the lies, and steals dad’s car in the middle of the night, starting a quest after something she long forgot how it feels.

Once again, clouds cover Violet’s eyes. She looks beautiful at this moment, when tears fall silently down her cheeks, and Henry wants to reach out and wipe them away, he wants to hold her until it's all over. But he's just a stranger to her. (Although deep down he knows, it can't be true, not with the way his heart skips a beat just from seeing her like this). And he can’t be a comforting shoulder for her, not when he doesn't know himself how to heal the pain. And suddenly, he finds himself telling her about a lost little boy, about imagination mixed with reality, dark curses and one Emma Swan who disappeared without a trace. (Regina’s hurt look, when he told her he wants to search for his biological mother, still etched in his memory and he didn't dare bring up the subject again) leaving him with a million unanswered questions, and an itch in his throat that seems to be yearning, but how can you miss someone you never knew? He tells her he has dreams too, that sometimes feel more real than anything else. (He too has demons, who whisper to him at night.) He tells her that sometimes he wants to run away too, far away from this town, or into a parallel world where there is no need to pretend. He talks. Until his voice become hoarse. Until he stands before her, exposed and vulnerable. Until her tears dry up, give their place to a sad smile of sympathy.

For a long moment, neither of them feels the need to talk. And she finds herself in front of the jukebox again, seeking comfort in the old melodies and Henry’s confident presence by her side.

“Are you going to be here all night?" Suddenly she finds she is afraid at the thought he might leave, of being left alone. 

He nods. “That’s what open 24\7 usually means.”

Blush covers her cheeks. “It's just that... it's my birthday and I don't want to be left alone.”

His eyes open in surprise, but a thin smile stretches at the corner of his mouth when he answers.

“Lucky I'm not going anywhere.”

“Close your eyes.” Henry disappears into the kitchen a few minutes later, warns her not to peek, but even with closed eyelids you can’t mistake the smell of hot chocolate cake. She opens her eyes into a slit (behind the counter Henry tries to stabilize a star-shaped candle on top of the cupcake) and hurries to close them, but can’t hide the smile spread across her face.

“Make a wish,” he tells her.

Violet blows out the candle, wishing to find herself a place to call home.

(She doesn't know she had already found it.)


End file.
